


nothing's ever easy

by Ketita



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of canon-typical violence, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23109289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketita/pseuds/Ketita
Summary: Einar makes an offer. Turns out Thorfinn's perception of reality is messed up.
Relationships: Einar/Thorfinn (Vinland Saga)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look I wrote this because I just wanted some angst. It's a dramarama in here and I don't care, I figure the fandom is small I hope some of you will enjoy this too >_>  
> *whispers* don't judge me

After a few days of watching Thorfinn start to push his hair behind his ears and emerge from beyond the tangled blond curtain, Einar asks Arnheid for a piece of string and offers it as a solution. Unsurprisingly perhaps, Thorfinn looks at the string blankly, then looks at Einar, and Einar honestly refuses to believe that he _doesn't know_ how to tie back his own hair.

"Turn around," he sighs.

"I know how to tie my hair back," Thorfinn says, just a few beats too late, but turns around and stands patiently. Maybe he doesn't care enough to actually do it. Einar generally finds it hard to tell what Thorfinn actually feels about things.

Surprisingly, given its overall unkempt look, he finds Thorfinn's hair to be silkier than expected, and it untangles easily around his fingers. Einar finger-combs it back, wraps the cord around it, and pats Thorfinn on the shoulder.

"There."

Thorfinn reaches up to feel the ponytail, then peers up at Einar, eyes surprisingly large now that the hair is pulled away from his face. He looks both older and younger. "Thanks," he says, just a bit flat, and a bit too late, and a bit like he's pretending badly. 

Since Einar has come to expect that by now, he responds as if Thorfinn is a completely normal person, and the two of them head for the fields.

The next morning, after a quiet moment where Thorfinn looks at him with muted curiosity, Einar does his hair again.

He thinks about it a few times during the day, though their work doesn't leave much time for ogling. Thorfinn's hair is remarkably soft, despite the abuse heaped on it. Almost like a woman's. And though Einar can't forget the sharp movements of his fight with Snake, or the fact that Thorfinn had been a warrior and is far more dangerous than he looks most of the time… he finds Thorfinn's size endearing. Just the right height for Einar to comfortably tie back his hair into a little gravity-defying starburst. Standing so close makes Einar feel terribly protective, because he still remembers how Thorfinn had told the 'guests' to kill him. Thofinn needs to be taken care of, since it seems that nobody had ever done it for him before. Einar doesn't know if this is normal for warriors; he thinks it might not be.

And well… they are both men, but he likes Thorfinn well enough, former-warrior or not, and neither of them are in a position to get any attention from the village women, as long as they're slaves. The fact that Thorfinn comes to him every morning to let Einar fix his hair – sometimes taking a bit more time than necessary, perhaps – could be a sign of interest, couldn't it?

Once the idea takes root he found it almost impossible to shake. It's been _far_ too long. Which means he has to find a way to ask before his fantasies get completely out of control, because hey. Maybe Thorfinn _won't_ be into it and he'll be left jerking off sadly by himself again.

So the next morning, he pulls Thorfinn's hair back and ties it, resisting the urge to bury his fingers in it because it just keeps getting softer and sleeker now that it's being taken care of, and clears his throat.

"Thorfinn?"

He turns, looking up, head tilted just a bit, eyes guileless, and fuck. Einar is used to being taller than people, but he _likes_ the view.

"Do you," he begins, then pauses, wondering at the appropriate protocol. Since he likes Thorfinn, and is maybe a little more romantic than he has any right to be, Einar decides to lean down for a kiss. That should make his intentions clear.

Thorfinn… doesn't really respond. His lips are rough and his stubble rubs against Einar's chin, but he doesn't dodge. He'd dodged Snake fast enough; he could've ducked away from Einar with plenty of time if he'd wanted to. Which means that maybe he doesn't hate it. But he doesn't kiss back, either.

Einar leans away, somewhat disappointed. Though really, what had he expected? Thorfinn is looking at him with a confused, vaguely troubled expression, and tired eyes. As usual.

Maybe Thorfinn has never been kissed, he thinks. If he'd known, he'd have tried to make it more memorable. He wants to apologize, but isn't sure for what. Einar clears his throat, breaks eye contact, and goes to wash his face. He might have fled, just a bit.

Thorfinn seems no different than usual, at first. Einar talks at him as they chop down trees, in between the heavy _thwuck_ of the axes, and sometimes Thorfinn answers. But at odd moments he catches Thorfinn watching him with furrowed brows and a small frown. Not the face of a man who's received a welcome invitation.

It stings a bit, but Einar can take a hint, and he won't let this interfere with their friendship. Probably best to take a break from the hair, though. At least until his body understands this isn't going to happen.

The day drags to an end. They eat, wash up, and head to the barn. Thorfinn is quiet, a heavier silence than Einar is used to, and Einar kind of wishes he hadn't done anything. The two of them have a long time left to spend together if they want to earn freedom, and Einar doesn't think he can take _years_ of this. Things had been going so well, too.

Well, aside from discovering about Thorfinn's past, but Einar has decided to accept that.

Despite the darkness, Einar is familiar enough with the barn to need no light to find his side of the hay pile. He's just pulling off his belt and getting ready to wish Thorfinn a cheery goodnight (and privately hope for a reasonably silent one), when Thorfinn speaks.

"Einar." His voice is soft, but layered with something.

Einar turns. It's hard to see Thorfinn's expression in the dark, but with his belt off and Pater's oversized tunic he looks even smaller than usual.

"It's okay if you want," Thorfinn says flatly. "Just, I need to be able to work tomorrow." He looks down, and his scarred hands fiddle with his hem.

Einar stares and tries to make sense of it. Nothing fits. "What?"

"You want to… bed me, don't you?" Thorfinn's voice wavers a bit. Maybe he's embarrassed? But that still doesn't explain the lack of enthusiasm. Even for Thorfinn he seems glum.

"I'm saying it's fine," Thorfinn continues. "I can take it, as long as you're not too rough."

"Rough?" Einar repeats, feeling stupid.

"I was a warrior for ten years," Thorfinn says dully. "I know what sex is like." He pauses, then continues, "I suppose I deserve it."

Revulsion hits Einar so strong he can't reply for a moment. He knows what warriors do to women. Had Thorfinn—? He must have made a sound, because Thorfinn keeps talking, even though Einar isn't sure he wants to hear.

"I saw what the other men did to the women they captured," Thorfinn says, his voice tight. "They cried, but I never helped any of them. I barely tried. I didn't even think about what was happening around me."

That's both better and worse than Einar had thought, and his heart slows some of its angry beating. Thorfinn has never _lied_ about what he's done, and has confessed his crimes clearly when asked. So Thorfinn has murdered, but maybe not raped. It's scant comfort.

But that means that… "You think I want to _rape_ you?"

"It's not rape if I don't fight back, right?" Thorfinn scratches at the back of his head. "I _said_ it's okay."

Einar sits down with a huff on a bale of hay, properly horrified. "That's," he starts. "That's not how it works. You don't…" He's growing more concerned by the minute, and more uncomfortable thinking that apparently Thorfinn has spent the entire day convincing himself to let Einar rape him. "You're supposed to do it out of desire," he explains. "Because it feels good."

Thorfinn snorts unexpectedly. "Of _course_ it has to feel good," he says. "Or the men wouldn't do it so much, right?"

"So you've really never…?" Einar feels compelled to ask.

"No." There's a roughness to the answer. "I never enjoyed hurting people. I won't do that to _anyone_."

"It's not _supposed_ to hurt," Einar protests, more vehement now that he's able to comfortably go back to just thinking of Thorfinn as someone who used to be a warrior. He doesn't have to realign his feelings after all.

"Right," Thorfinn says skeptically. "Look, I'm not doing it to you. If you want to fuck me, get on with it, or let's go to sleep."

Einar isn't sure what Thorfinn is thinking exactly when he says 'fuck him', but is _very_ certain he never wants to do that. For that matter, he's not sure he wants to touch Thorfinn at all now. He may have to keep watch and make sure _nobody_ touches Thorfinn like that, ever, because if Thorfinn expects to be hurt then he won't know to protect himself from it. How has Thorfinn survived years on the battlefield? It's a mystery.

All this has gotten far too complicated for Einar. He'd just wanted to let off steam, not wade into the swamp of Thorfinn's past. But then, he thinks, Thorfinn lives with his past every day. Thorfinn who said—and Einar doesn't quite know whether to believe him or not—that nothing good has ever happened in his life. Maybe, he thinks, he would like to be something nice that happens to Thorfinn. But not like this.

Einar stands up and steps over to Thorfinn, noting with a twinge that Thorfinn breathes a sigh that seems almost resigned, though he doesn't flinch. Then again, Thorfinn hadn't flinched when Fox had cut off his ear, either. Einar wraps both his arms around Thorfinn, who is both small and very solid at the same time.

This time, he has no expectations, and so will not be disappointed. Thorfinn's arms don't come up to hold him, but he does, after a moment, lean in. Just a bit. His shoulders loosen.

"Einar," he mumbles, chin digging in somewhere around Einar's clavicle. "My neck hurts."

For goodness' sake. Einar holds him at arms' length and can't help but chuckle. "Sorry," he says, but feels good about it. Somehow Thorfinn's little gripe means he's okay.

"That's it?" Thorfinn asks. The light catches in his confused eyes. "What was that?"

Einar _could_ turn that into a joke, but he knows what Thorfinn is asking. There will be other days for teasing. "You looked like you needed a hug."

"Me?"

Einar grins and stretches, heading for his pile of hay. "Goodnight, Thorfinn."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody:  
> Me: so here's more of Einar and Thorfinn being touchy and dramatic with each other

Weeks pass, unchanging. They measure time in fallen trees and growing wheat, in chill winds and steaming breath. Time will restart when he is free, Einar thinks. Until then, nothing has meaning.

But with the change of the seasons come changes in Thorfinn. After all, he is a constant in Einar's life, and Einar can hardly help but notice. It is terrible to be by his side all day every day when he can still remember what his lips felt like. Each passing day glorifies the memory and leaves him with a helpless ache of longing he will not act on.

Thorfinn nowadays reminds him somewhat of a duckling following him around. He's clearly gotten into his head that Einar knows all sorts of things he doesn't. He'll come up to Einar as he's chopping, wait behind him until he finishes, and then point out a bird or plant and ask what it is. Or ask why something happens, or how something is done. At least half the time, Einar has no idea and says so, each time worried that maybe Thorfinn will finally decide his knowledge is insufficient and not ask anymore. It hasn't happened yet.

He's never had anybody treat him as an authority before. He doesn't even dare tease Thorfinn, because the one time he tried, Thorfinn had just nodded solemnly, accepting it, no matter that nobody would believe that spiders could fly. Einar had confessed the lie almost immediately, and Thorfinn's obvious disappointment had made him swear to himself not to do it again. Thorfinn is so very straightforward. When he thinks back, Einar realizes he's never caught him in a lie.

With his hair tied back, even his expressions are exposed, such as they are. He no longer hides his minute shifts of emotion from the world. He is still terribly dulled, to Einar's opinion, but tempered now with something that might be recovery. It is terrible how some days Einar has nothing else to think about, how Thorfinn grows large in his mind.

He never asks for another hug, and Einar can't bring himself to offer. Thorfinn just _accepts_ everything. Insults, pain, deprivation. Just like he accepts whatever knowledge anybody sees fit to bestow on him. Einar doesn't know if touch is something Thorfinn wants for himself, and swears he won't inflict it unasked for. He deals with his own desires in private. And if sometimes he stands a bit longer than necessary and watches Thorfinn with his axe, Thorfinn is none the wiser.

And sometimes he catches Thorfinn watching him with an odd sort of look he doesn't know how to interpret. But Thorfinn never says anything, and Einar won't ask. Stubbornly, he wants Thorfinn to come to _him._ If Thorfinn will not come, so be it, he decides.

Yet daily, he finds his resolve weakening. Beautiful Arnheid is unreachable as the moon, and Thorfinn is _right there_.

On a summer Saturday, they sit side-by-side on the riverbank, drying from their wash. To the side, their clothes lie spread out in the sun to dry as well. Thorfinn has his hair down, its ends now reaching his shoulders. Einar looks for a moment, then finds his eyes wandering curiously over the patchwork of scars across Thorfinn's torso. He has the decorum not to look below the waist. It is so stupid of him to look at all.

He decides to distract himself. "Thorfinn," he begins, because why not ask? Thorfinn asks him things all the time. "What's that scar from?" He points at a particularly twisted one on Thorfinn's shoulderblade.

"Huh?" Thorfinn turns and tries to look at his own back, then reaches up to touch the raised skin. He is very limber. "Oh, I guess it's from an arrow."

"You don't remember?"

"I have a lot of them," Thorfinn says. "You stop noticing after a while." Seeing that Einar's eyes are still on him, Thorfinn turns a bit more to show his chest. "The straighter ones are from swords and stuff," he says, pointing at one that crosses his pectoral.

"Is it… normal, to have so many?"

"I guess," says Thorfinn doubtfully. "I never noticed. Maybe guys who wear armor have less."

Einar doesn't know how far it's okay to push. Thorfinn is still answering, though. "You never wore armor?"

"Armor slows you down," Thorfinn says. "And I'm small." He hunches a bit, discomfort tensing his muscles. "Why are you asking? You hate warriors."

"I guess it's so hard for me to imagine you as a warrior," Einar says, somewhat apologetic.

"Really?" Thorfinn perks up a bit, hopeful.

Einar smiles, and shoves him lightly on the shoulder. But then, he wonders, what if some day he _can_ imagine Thorfinn as a warrior? Will his feelings change? Is Thorfinn trying so hard to make himself small because he is afraid of what will happen on that day?

He will not, he promises himself. He is not so cruel. Thorfinn, so vulnerable right now, so susceptible to kindness, would be crushed.

"I thought," Thorfinn says, looking steadily out at the river, "maybe that's why you didn't hug me again."

"Ah," Einar starts, already feeling guilty.

"You said I looked like I needed it," Thorfinn continues, his voice a little smaller. "I don't know what that looks like, though."

Einar clears his throat. "You could, er, hug _me_ ," he says. "I would hug you back."

Thorfinn turns back to him, and for a moment Einar panics that he might do it _now_. Both of them are still nude, and he doesn't think he'll survive the encounter. He's just about to leap to his feet and go for his trousers when Thorfinn keeps speaking.

"I think of it sometimes," he confesses. "But it seems like a lot of work. By the time I have the energy to do it, the feeling goes away. A lot of feelings just go away."

"That sounds sad," Einar ventures.

"Does it?" Thorfinn only sounds vaguely curious. But then, Einar thinks, Thorfinn does still have his curiosity. That is enough to motivate him to bother Einar. He is afraid that if he mentions it, though, Thorfinn might stop.

"I have an idea," Einar says, captured by inspiration. He practically leaps to his feet, then turns to hold out a hand to Thorfinn, who doesn't need it. Thorfinn moves so smoothly the transition between one position and another seems nonexistent, sometimes. Einar does not think about why that is.

"Let's get dressed first." He absolutely hates watching Thorfinn's skin vanish beneath clothes, but sighs relief when it happens. He dons his own protection against embarrassment, and finds Thorfinn looking at him with a gratifying edge of expectation. He leads Thorfinn to a nice, dry patch of riverbank in dappled shade under a tree.

"You sit there," he says, pointing at the ground. Thorfinn drops, cross-legged, and looks up for the next step. "I'm going to lie here." Einar lies down next to him, lays his head on laced fingers. "Close my eyes," he does so, "and you can do whatever you want."

It's a lazy Saturday afternoon. They can rest.

"I don't get it," comes Thorfinn's voice. He can see the frown in his mind's eye, and resists a smirk.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "If you want to talk, I'm here. If you want to do anything else, you can take all the time you need. And if you don't want anything, I'll just rest."

Immediately, this idea seems like the worst he'd ever had. Every rustle or breath from Thorfinn's direction sends his heart speeding. How can he just lie here, waiting to see if Thorfinn will do something? Choking on expectation, while trying to tamp it down? And what if Thorfinn _doesn't_?

He will die. Just expire right here and be done.

Time, interminable, passes. Einar's heartbeat slows, and he manages to relax somewhat. Thorfinn won't do anything, he tells himself. But he can still feel the warmth near him, where Thorfinn sits, and hear his breath. Perhaps that's all he will ever have. Perhaps that's all Thorfinn has to give.

"I can see your pulse," Thorfinn says, suddenly. "You're not resting."

"I'm doing my best!"

Thorfinn snorts, and Einar is wild with frustration. Had Thorfinn smiled? He desperately wants to look, but won't break the rules he set up.

Rustling, shifting of air. Thorfinn is moving and Einar is going to die right here, right now. Shuffling closer, warmth against his side, pressure of a hand on his chest and—

Something mashes into his face. Einar squeaks and only just manages to keep his eyes from flying open, because _he promised_ but Thorfinn is _kissing him_. It's clumsy and inexperienced and impossible. He tries to kiss back, because this time he _knows_ how big his responsibility is, to make it nice. If it's nice, Thorfinn may kiss him again someday. He strokes Thorfinn's bottom lip with his tongue, sucks on it, teases into the slick warmth of Thorfinn's mouth.

Thorfinn lets him, following along carefully. He knows how to learn. Einar can imagine the furrow of his brow, feels a rush of excitement at Thorfinn learning _him_. He wants to grab onto him, pull him closer, but is afraid of scaring him away.

With a soft puff of breath Thorfinn retreats, and finally Einar dares to open his eyes. A golden curtain of hair brackets them both, threatening to get into Einar's mouth or eyes but never quite reaching. Yes, there is the frown of concentration, gratifying attention focused on him after so many months of starvation.

Thorfinn inspects Einar's face closely, licks his lower lip (Einar unconsciously mirrors the action), and then makes a decision. Imperiously, he pushes Einar's left hand away from his head so he can grab at his hair, pulls Einar's face to him, and shows just how fast he learned. He's still sloppy, but now it's with exciting aggression that makes Einar _very glad_ that he'd insisted on getting dressed first. He grabs at Thorfinn's hair, at his back, and drowns in sensation.

Finally, a wonderful eternity later, Thorfinn's lips wander away from his mouth and down his neck in a burning trail, and finally Thorfinn sighs satisfaction. Einar basks in the intensity of his gaze, thinking, this is who Thorfinn might yet become. Beneath the weight of his past, Thorfinn is still alive. He will be amazing when he finally realizes it.

With a small sound of contentment, Thorfinn flops down on Einar's chest, and Einar immediately holds on. He expects that this will fade, but he will not forget.

"I like that," Thorfinn says sleepily, rubbing his face somewhere near Einar's armpit. "I've never…" He raises his head and looks at Einar, almost shy. "I've never had somebody to die for, before."

The warmth of the day rushes out of Einar. He can't breathe, but his hands tighten around Thorfinn, who has put his head back down with a happy hum. No, he thinks to himself. He will not allow that to happen. He won't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would be super appreciated! Where are my thornar peeps at, eh?
> 
> Feel free to say hi on tumblr, I'm jochai


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronology on this thing is very vague. It's mostly just a lot of soft Einar/Thorfinn with some angst for seasoning. That's it, that's the fic.

He likes touching Thorfinn. Getting his attention with a hand on his shoulder or back, shoving him playfully into a pile of leaves, brushing fingers when they pass a skin of water. He tugs playfully on the end of Thorfinn's small ponytail just to watch Thorfinn twitch it away from him, pokes him in the side to make Thorfinn swat his hand.

Thorfinn looks at him reproachfully, confused by the poking and the prodding, and doesn't seem to know how to respond when Einar grins back at him. He is even more flustered when sometimes Einar takes advantage of his momentary confusion to peck him on the lips. While Thorfinn does enjoy kissing – at least based on the fact that he _does_ initiate – he will make a whole production out of it: inching closer, skittish as a squirrel, ready to flee at the first sign of rejection. If it doesn't come, he will wrap his arms around Einar's neck and pull him down, or tug on his hair or ears, and settle in for a thorough exploration.

When Einar strokes down the back of his neck or nips at his ears Thorfinn turns bright red, but sometimes distress flickers across his face. So Einar doesn't touch him there often. The closest he gets is kissing the sides of Thorfinn's neck, which makes him huff a facsimile of laughter. It's probably the beard, Einar thinks. 

Somewhat frustratingly, Thorfinn doesn't seem to want to take physical contact any lower than the torso. It's strange, that he will kiss and lean into touch, but shows no other sign of sexual interest. Einar can't imagine a man who has no interest in sex, so much that he wonders sometimes if Thorfinn would really prefer a woman. Einar is, after all, quite a bit taller and broader than him, though Thorfinn is handsome enough and hardly womanly despite his stature. But Thorfinn seems to have little interest in manliness, and takes odd comfort in being close to Einar. Once Einar had held his hand, and Thorfinn had blushed and a variety of confusing expressions had crossed his face – but he didn't let go. Perhaps Thorfinn simply wants to be touched gently by another human. Einar feels somewhat guilty that the memory of the strength of his grip persists, rising at inopportune moments.

Einar knows that there is not much soft or gentle about Thorfinn. He is a killer, made of hard wiry muscle covered with skin marked by battles he'd survived. He is roughened, from the palms of his hands to his chapped lips. Yet when he sits pressed against Einar's side, under his arm, he is deceptively pliant, and the color of his eyes is a sweet, honeyed brown.

No matter how many times Einar has held him, each time he reaches out he still sees surprise on Thorfinn's face. He wonders if Thorfinn is prepared for each time to be the last.

And then one day in late summer, no different from any other, they are returning from the fields, elated at being released earlier than usual. Einar gives Thorfinn a playful little shove of high spirits. Thorfinn frowns at him, and out of nowhere, shoves him back. Einar nearly stumbles at the combination of the strength and surprise of it. For a moment he stands frozen, and Thorfinn begins to curl in worry.

"You--!" Einar says, a grin splitting his face, and goes at him. Thorfinn yelps in surprise, but gives as good as he gets. Einar is laughing, and Thorfinn is—almost. He seems so relieved to be doing what Einar wants. They tussle briefly, and Einar is surprised when Thorfinn knocks him down efficiently, until he remembers why—

No.

He smiles and takes the hand Thorfinn offers him up. The hand is as strong as ever, warm in his palm. Since nobody else is around, Einar holds on to it for a few minutes. Thorfinn's blush is swallowed by the red of the setting sun, but he doesn't pull his hand away.


	4. Chapter 4

Einar has begged a razor off Pater, and is now glaring at his jittering reflection in a bucket of water, trying to groom his beard into something neater. He will undoubtedly cut himself; it is only a matter of time. Thorfinn watches him silently, nonjudgmental, but aggravating all the same. Einar scowls, and has to pause and tame the expression in order to try shaving again.

“Do you want help?” Thorfinn asks, unexpectedly. The offer is certainly sincere, but Einar can’t help but consider the raggedy fuzz on Thorfinn’s chin with distrust.

“Have you ever shaved before?” He knows the answer, for Thorfinn’s sad excuse for a beard is more suited to a fourteen-year-old than someone of their age. It occurs to him that he should fix that.

“I know my way around a blade,” Thorfinn answers.

“Huh,” says Einar, and for a moment, is torn. Now that Thorfinn has spoken, to refuse would be mistrust of the worst sort. But to put his neck under Thorfinn’s blade… he will have to refrain from thinking about the many men who had found their deaths there. He swallows. “Thanks.”

Back a little straighter, and with almost a spring in his step, Thorfinn leads him to sit down on a log, and takes the razor. Well, Einar thinks, if he gets nicked it will have been worth it, to see this happiness in Thorfinn’s movements.

Thorfinn tilts Einar’s head back with a gentleness in his rough fingers that Einar has grown accustomed to, but this time, there is a blade uncomfortably present. Einar gives instructions on how he’d like it, while Thorfinn listens gravely. His thumb idly strokes Einar’s jaw a bit, and Einar wonders if he knows he’s doing it.

The sharp blade scrapes gently against his cheek and Einar realizes that he _isn’t_ worried. His mind cannot comprehend the thought of Thorfinn hurting him. One of Thorfinn’s fingers comes to rest on the hollow of his throat, to find Einar’s pulse thrumming.

Thorfinn hesitates. “Are you,” he begins.

“Am I what?”

“Are you thinking of Arnheid?”

At Einar’s surprise, Thorfinn adds, “You had that expression you get around her. That funny smile.”

“I—yes, I mean, no—“

“It’s okay,” Thorfinn says. “You really like her, don’t you? Let me finish.” And he brandishes the razor again.

Einar obediently shuts his mouth, even as his head spins. _Had_ he been thinking of Arnheid? Memories of the last moment seem blurry, now. His feelings for Arnheid are nothing like what he has with Thorfinn. She is a woman, after all; beautiful and kind and would surely be a wonderful wife and mother. Thorfinn is a man. The thought of him as a wife makes no sense, and anyway—

They are just slaves together. When they are free, when they own themselves, they must separate.

“Now you’re frowning,” Thorfinn comments, wiping the blade. “But I’m done.”

Relieved at the distraction, Einar strokes his newly-manicured beard and is pleased. His reflection in the bucket of water is likewise gratifying. He looks like a proper man again. He turns to Thorfinn with a grin, and Thorfinn smiles back with some relief that Einar likes it.

“Now I’ll do you!” he announces.

Thorfinn blinks. “Me?”

“You’re scruffy,” Einar says. At his gesture, Thorfinn obediently sits where Einar had been before, and looks up. Razor in hand, Einar considers his face for a moment, before starting.

A twist, a sharp pain, and his wrist is in Thorfinn’s hand, the razor falling on the floor. Einar yelps, almost belatedly. For a moment, Thorfinn’s brows are knit, his eyes lit in rage—but it dissipates into wide-eyed shock, and he lets go of Einar’s wrist and jerks his hand back as if burned.

“Sorry,” Thorfinn stammers. “I—sorry.”

Einar retrieves the razor, wrist still throbbing a bit from the sudden grip. The blade, he thinks. It must have startled Thorfinn. “I don’t have to shave you if you don’t want,” he offers, subdued. Thorfinn has enough bad memories; he doesn’t want to raise more.

“No, it’s fine!” Thorfinn moves to grab his wrist again, then aborts the motion. “It’s fine.” He inhales, eyes closed, then exhales, calming himself. When he reopens his eyes they are deader, and his expression has faded.

The look is unpleasantly familiar, and Einar doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t like the situation, but refusing might hurt Thorfinn more. Nervous, he brings the razor close again, and is relieved when Thorfinn doesn’t react. Yet strangely disappointed, too.

By the time he is done, he has managed to set aside all the confusing emotions. With a proper beard and his hair tied back neatly, Thorfinn looks attractive enough to restore Einar’s cheer. A job well done.

“Go look!” he announces proudly. “You’re handsome now.”

“Am I?” Thorfinn inspects his face in the reflection, then looks back at Einar. “It’s the same as yours,” he says.

Einar flounders, and realizes then that yes, he’d shaved the exact same style onto Thorfinn. He hadn’t even thought to ask what Thorfinn wanted! His face is heating up, even as he tries to form an apology, saying that if Thorfinn hates it, he can shave it all off—

Thorfinn is distracted, and looks at his reflection again. “Thank you, Einar,” he says gravely. “I suppose it must look good, if it’s like yours.”

And that is too much for Einar. He doesn’t know what to do with this feeling, light and tight and strange, so he throws an arm around Thorfinn’s shoulders and knuckles his head. Thorfinn laughs a bit and shoves back, and they head for the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just cute this time ^^  
> I hope you guys are enjoying the schmoopy farm adventures!


	5. Chapter 5

The days grow shorter, and in the mornings their breath steams. Despite the thin blankets Pater has given them, Einar already foresees chilly nights. He thinks of Thorfinn and his blanket, and his own blanket, and the warmth of Thorfinn's skin against his hands. It makes sense, he thinks, not to suffer more than they have to.

In the darkness of the barn, Einar looks over to Thorfinn and his stack of hay and clears his throat.

"It's cold," he starts.

Thorfinn returns his look, and shrugs. "I'm used to it," he says unhelpfully. “I’m surprised somebody as big as you gets cold.”

Why Einar still tries to do these things delicately is beyond him. "We could share blankets," he says, and immediately wants to squirm away from the intimacy of the suggestion. “…And I’m not _cold_ ,” he feels the need to defend. “It would just be more comfortable.”

"Oh," Thorfinn says, and Einar has to remind himself that neutrality from Thorfinn means nothing. It's not a rejection; he probably just doesn't know what to think. Einar suppresses a small sigh.

"But," Thorfinn begins, and _that_ is the start of a rejection. "My nightmares will bother you," he continues, somewhat uncertainly.

Einar suppresses the urge to say the nightmares bother him anyway, because that will just make Thorfinn feel bad. He can't help it, after all. "I don't think it'll be much worse," he says hopefully. "And at least it'll be warmer."

For too long, Thorfinn stands quietly looking at Einar, then at his own blanket, until Einar is about ready to call it quits.

"Okay," Thorfinn says softly, and pulls up his blanket, trailing hay. Einar worries that it will be awkward, but the ease of working together quickly takes over. With nothing more than a few gestures, they spread Einar’s blanket beneath them, lie down on top of it, and pull Thorfinn's over it all. It is so easy.

And now they're close, enough that Thorfinn's warm breath puffs against Einar's chin. He shifts closer to the heat of Thorfinn's body, and daringly rests an arm over Thorfinn's waist. At first Thorfinn is uncomfortable and shifty, unsure what to do with his legs and arms, torn between looking Einar in the eye and averting his gaze in an odd shyness. Einar can't help a silly grin, and resists the urge to wrap himself around Thorfinn completely.

Eventually, Thorfinn curls smaller, tucks his head under Einar's chin, and relaxes. One of his legs tangles between Einar’s, and his hair flops everywhere and threatens to slither into Einar’s nose and mouth. Einar tightens his arms around Thorfinn and tries desperately not to voice his happiness. Maybe, he thinks, he can protect Thorfinn from nightmares, too.

He can't.

A blow to the face jerks him into disoriented wakefulness, and he tries to understand why somebody seems intent on beating him up. Thorfinn's uncoordinated flailing is stronger than it should be, and the wailing is horrifyingly loud when it's right in Einar's ear. He tries groggily to wake Thorfinn up, and receives several more whacks about the head before he finally manages. Thorfinn jerks upwards in the predawn light, nearly cracking Einar's jaw in the process, gasping and shuddering.

He says nothing, and Einar doesn't know what to say either. Throughout the day, a bruise darkens on Einar's jaw. He heads off Thorfinn's guilt by cracking a joke about Thorfinn mistaking him for a tree and trying to decapitate him. It doesn't really land.

Thorfinn cringes a bit and mutters "I didn't _mean_ to," which makes Einar feel guilty about bringing up his past, and they are awkward all afternoon. 

But that night, without saying anything, Thorfinn marches over to their shared pile of blankets with determined steps and squared shoulders. He is very stubborn when he wants to be, and Einar is glad last night’s fiasco didn’t scare him off. This time, they try a different position: Thorfinn leans his back against Einar’s front, pressed all the way from nape to legs. Einar’s back remains chilly but his chest is so very warm, and though he can’t feel Thorfinn’s breath on his neck, each movement of his ribcage ripples into Einar through their skin. Einar strokes his hair a little, traces the scarred curve of his shoulder, and then slides his arm under Thorfinn’s and around his chest. When Thorfinn links their fingers together, he thinks he might expire with delight.

It doesn’t last. Thorfinn elbows him awake with a blow to the ribs, and a jerk of his head only narrowly avoids breaking Einar’s nose. This time, Einar tries to talk to him and hold him down, but Thorfinn cries and struggles and kicks. When Thorfinn finally wakes, Einar has nothing to say.

Over the next nights, they continue to try, with increased strain. They position Einar on top, trying to hold Thorfinn down with the weight of his body; lie side by side, hardly touching, but close enough for warmth; Thorfinn holding on to Einar’s back, and nearly strangling him when the nightmares arrive.

Throughout the week, Einar’s frustrated inadequacy grows alongside sleep-deprived exhaustion. It is slavery that has made him helpless, he decides. He can’t even provide comfort. Surely he should be able to do _something_ , make some kind of difference in Thorfinn’s life. Perhaps it’s not him at all, he thinks, as he swings an axe angrily at a tree. Thorfinn might hold him and kiss him, but maybe Thorfinn would do that for _anyone_ who shows him the least amount of kindness. Their relationship is founded on nothing but servitude to a man with money enough to buy them both. Three years and they’ll be free, and then maybe Thorfinn will drop his heart at the feet of the first woman to ask for it.

And maybe, Einar thinks, it’s because he has nobody either. His parents and brothers and sisters are gone. His friends are gone. His past is erased. When the only person in his life is Thorfinn, is it such a wonder that he is obsessed? Thorfinn is forced to work beside him and sleep beside him. Einar will talk as long as he isn’t told to stop, because talking to someone who hardly answers is still better than talking to no-one at all. Having someone to care about is better than being alone.

After all, Einar doesn’t need taking care of, not like Thorfinn. He might dream of his lost home, but his nightmares are nowhere as loud, or as constant. When threatened, Einar will try to protect himself, even if his skills are inadequate. He knows how to plant wheat and harvest it, how to thatch a roof and use a plow.

Without him, Thorfinn will fail. But without him, Thorfinn won’t care that he does. If Thorfinn doesn’t even care about himself, is it not too much to ask him to care about Einar?

He is not surprised, just bitterly resigned, when that night Thorfinn says uncertainly, “Maybe we should stop.”

Einar sighs. Hearing the edge in the sound, Thorfinn continues, his voice dull and small.

“I don’t think getting hit by me is more comfortable than being cold. I’m sorry I can’t help, Einar.”

“It’s fine.”

Thorfinn stops trying to separate their blankets with the minimum extra hay, and straightens up. “Are you angry at me?”

In face of the bald question Einar realizes that he is, but doesn’t understand why. Silence stretches too long, and Thorfinn wilts.

“I’m sorry,” Thorfinn says again. “I should have stopped before. I’m keeping you awake. I thought…” his voice trails. “Maybe I hoped it would work. That if you held me…” Thorfinn ducks his head, and tangles the blanket in his hands. “I don’t deserve to sleep well,” he finally says. “It was wrong of me to try and use you like that. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not true,” Einar says, leaping to defense, now that he has a clear target. “I’m not angry, Thorfinn. I just wanted… to protect you.” He doesn’t know anymore what he wanted from Thorfinn, now that Thorfinn has said his piece. Maybe Thorfinn forgot that sharing blankets had been Einar’s idea in the first place.

Since Einar doesn’t know what else to say, but Thorfinn looks like he needs to be held up lest he collapse in on himself, he steps forward and hugs him, blankets and hay and all. Making a small, grateful sound, Thorfinn leans into his arms.

“I’m not angry,” Einar promises, and tucks some of the hair that escaped his ponytail behind his ear. They part for the night, separate again, and cold. Einar lies in the dark, still awake after Thorfinn’s breaths have gone slow and even, and stares at the ceiling. He feels alone, still. It seems like things should have been fixed, and he doesn’t know why they aren’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep encouraging me and I'll keep writing these vignettes until the end of time >_>


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, at the end of a chill day when he walks back to the barn with Thorfinn by his side, he feels grateful, and that enrages him. He is a slave. Many months ago, he had been happy and thankful for Ketil, a kind master who would grant him freedom. But now he thinks: had masters not been willing to pay for slaves, would slavery exist? Because of slavers, of masters, Einar is forced to work to earn back his self.

But this is the way of the world, and resentment is pointless. He will be free once more, and will not allow himself to be enslaved again. And yet, he is still grateful, because had he not been enslaved and bought by Ketil, had Thorfinn not suffered the same, he would not have met Thorfinn. He doesn’t understand himself, sometimes, why Thorfinn brings him such great joy. After all, Thorfinn is quiet and dour—but bright and sweet in moments, shining through the clouds of his sadness.

He wonders if Thorfinn is happy to have met him. He is not fool enough to ignore the testimony of his senses—Thorfinn seeks him out in the chill of winter. Even if they cannot share a blanket at night, sometimes during the day Thorfinn will sit on Einar’s lap and tuck his cold fingers into Einar’s armpits. Einar has warmth enough for both of them, and is happy to share. If Einar puts a hand on his head, he will shudder and melt further. With the thickness of their winter clothes, he seems less gaunt and malnourished.

But had Thorfinn had the choice between slavery and freedom, with Einar as the prize for slavery, he does not fool himself that Thorfinn would have chosen him. He knows that Thorfinn was not captured to slavery, like Einar, but abandoned to it.

And so, in between bouts of motivation to clear their land and plant their fields and earn their freedom, resentment festers. He tries to fight it, because it is a useless emotion. But sometimes it rises and makes him irritable.

Perhaps that is why he didn’t notice the rot in the tree. Or perhaps the flaw was invisible, and the outcome would have been the same either way. All he knows is that one minute he is chopping, perhaps with force born of directionless anger, and the next there is a mighty _crack_. Rotted from the inside, the tree can no longer support its own weight, and falls in an unexpected direction.

Einar tries to roll out of the way, but isn’t quick enough, and the ground is uneven. The trunk misses him, but a thick bough knocks him stunned. When his senses return he is staring at the sky, wondering briefly why he is lying down. Memory does not bring pain, not yet – though it will surely come. He cannot move.

Thorfinn enters his field of vision. “Einar!” Not waiting for a response, Thorfinn turns to the bough and begins chopping at it madly.

“I’m fine,” Einar tries to tell him, though the weight of the branch on his lungs makes it breathless. He is not sure that he is fine, but it seems like the thing to say. He watches Thorfinn finish chopping off the branch, but cries out when Thorfinn tries to roll it off him.

“What…” Thorfinn comes over and stares down at his middle, and his eyes go wide in a suddenly bloodless face. One of the smaller branches has stabbed into Einar’s side, pinning him in place.

“Einar,” says Thorfinn and attacks the wood with his axe until the smaller branch is broken off, then roars effort as he lifts the entire bough off Einar and tosses it aside.

Pain finally registers and he cries out. Thorfinn’s white face hovers over him, staring at the blood seeping out around the thin broken shaft of wood. His hands flutter helplessly.

“Thorfinn?” Einar is afraid now, because it doesn’t look so bad from where he lies, but Thorfinn is falling to pieces. It doesn’t hurt so much, but sometimes death-wounds don’t. In response, Thorfinn sits down heavily next to him and tries to pull Einar into his lap, fisting his hands in the fabric of his tunic.

“Am I dying?”

The question snaps the vagueness off Thorfinn’s face, to replace it with a sort of twisted anger. Thorfinn kisses him hard and desperate on the mouth, and then begins to move with purpose. No longer lost, he tugs off Einar’s belt and tells him to bite it while he pulls out the branch. For a moment, Einar hollers and sees stars, but then the pain abates into a duller throb. Thorfinn strips off one of his gloves and presses it to the wound, then belts it in place.

“You’re fine,” he says. “This is nothing.”

A far cry from his previous behavior.

Einar has always known that Thorfinn is stronger than he looks, but this is the first time he’s really felt it for himself. He is almost surprised that Thorfinn at his side is a sturdy support, even when Einar limps on a now-discovered twisted ankle. They make slow, but sure, progress, until the main house is in sight. Einar is unsurprised that nobody along the way offers to help them.

Pater, as usual, is caring and helpful. He provides hot water and bandages for Einar’s side, and more bandages for his ankle. Thorfinn insists on splinting it, despite Einar trying to reassure him that it doesn’t hurt that much.

The wound in his side, though it bled somewhat dramatically, is not very bad. If it is kept clean, it will be fine.

“See, Thorfinn?” Einar teases. “You panicked over nothing.”

“That’s good,” Thorfinn replies, all sincerity. It saddens Einar, and he would have reached out in apology, but Pater is there.

“You should rest,” Pater tells them. “Take the rest of the day off.”

So they go to find an out-of-the-way corner to coddle Einar’s wounds. When Thorfinn is hurt, he will insist on working anyway. Not wanting to seem less of a man, Einar tries to do the same.

“What are you doing?” Thorfinn demands. “You’re hurt!”

“It’s nothing,” Einar tries.

“No, it’s not.” Thorfinn glares. “How could you let a _tree_ fall on you? You need to be careful, Einar!”

The sight of Thorfinn incensed and scolding is novel.

“Why are you smiling?” Thorfinn demands.

Einar just shakes his head. “Thank you for helping me, Thorfinn.” With some stiffness, he manages to lie down on a bale of hay. From this angle, Thorfinn looks tall.

“I’ll go back to the forest,” Thorfinn says. “I can work instead of you. So you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m sorry,” Einar says. The thought of Thorfinn alone in the forest once more, in the silence, disquiets him. “I’ll try to get better quickly.”

“Take your time,” Thorfinn replies. “I’m going now.” But he doesn’t move, watching Einar’s face with eyes that occasionally flick down to the bandaging on his side. After a time, he sits down next to Einar, trailing one hand across his chest and shoulder, and then stroking his hair back from his face. Thorfinn keeps protecting him, he thinks. It has been so long since anybody bothered. He wants to tell Thorfinn to never stop carding through his hair, or to reach out and squeeze Thorfinn close, or kiss him silly. He doesn’t know what he wants.

He opens his mouth to say something, when a footstep makes Thorfinn snatch away, practically leaping to the other side of the barn. Like a beam of sunlight, Arnheid enters, bearing a bowl.

“Einar?” she says. “How are you feeling? I heard from Pater that you were injured. I brought some broth.”

“It’s not so bad,” says Einar, wanting to look tough, then worries that she might take him at his word, and backtracks. “…For a guy like me. I can take the pain.”

Arnheid laughs softly. “Can you sit up?”

Einar tries, and almost doesn’t notice when Thorfinn quietly helps prop him up from the other side. He wishes Arnheid would leave, so he could hold Thorfinn—and yet he cannot truly wish for her to leave. Between the two of them, with their capable hands, warm eyes, fond touches, he feels lucky beyond imagining.

That night he dreams he is a free man, returning home to a short, light-haired figure, who greets him with a kiss. He buries his hands in the hair, strokes the neck, wraps around the trim waist, but when he wakes up he cannot for the life of him remember if the figure was Thorfinn or Arnheid.

To dream of Arnheid is natural, he thinks. It must have been her. What kind of future would he and Thorfinn have? Thorfinn cannot give him children, and he cannot give them to Thorfinn. But the memory of the dream persists, and he wonders if perhaps, if the choice were given, if he would not take it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably clarify regarding the 'completion' status of the fic... since these are loosely-connected oneshots, there isn't necessarily a specific stopping place. So at some point I will probably run out of steam/ideas and then it'll be the end. But just because it's marked 'complete' now doesn't mean it won't be updated!  
> It's down to my inspiration (and your guys' encouragement! ;D)
> 
> Hope you continue to enjoy the misadventures of this emotionally incompetent idiot and his large bi disaster boyfriend.

Spring arrives in warm winds, birdsong in the trees, and small green shoots poking up through the remnants of snow. Rabbits run by them in the forest, and sometimes Thorfinn snares one for lunch. Underfoot, badger-holes trip them up, and ferrets flee. Near the river, they find duck and goose eggs and can’t resist the temptation. Thorfinn has no great cooking skills, and they lack a pot or seasoning for Einar to try his hand with, but at least they have fresh meat roasted over a fire. For the first time in a long time Einar feels full. Thorfinn notices and seems pleased; Einar notices that he is pleased and feels warm. They find moose tracks, and Einar’s mouth waters at the thought – and then he has to dissuade Thorfinn, who seems determined to try and hunt one down for him. An animal that big would need to be properly butchered and cured, lest the meat go to waste, and at that point they’d just be handing it over to Ketil and the farm hands.

Einar is no great woodsman, but shows Thorfinn all his discoveries: baby birds, flowers budding, happy bees, overactive squirrels. At Thorfinn’s delight he almost regrets chopping down the forest, but they need their freedom. And anyway, Thorfinn’s wonder at their own little wheat field eclipses it all. Einar briefly regrets that Thorfinn didn’t like being called ‘baby’, because _he_ liked it. But he won’t inflict it on Thorfinn.

The spring thaw seems to extend to Thorfinn himself. He still doesn’t talk about his past often, but the beginnings of acceptance may be taking root. The past may never loose its grip, but Thorfinn seems more present now than before. Smiles flicker across his face more frequently, and affection comes to him more easily. His eyes have regained some light, though he is still fearfully dulled. When he stands and looks off into the distance, Einar knows he is overcome by thoughts of rebirth and self-recrimination, and doesn’t know how to reach him there.

He knows they are thrown together by chance. What more can he ask of Thorfinn? He has no right.

With the rising passion between them, he has to remind himself of this often. He wants to ask Thorfinn to stop, to take a step back, because how can Einar kiss him and hold him one minute, and the next watch him walk away, staring into the distance? How is Einar supposed to interpret warm lips one minute, and then shying away from his hands the next? Asking seems pushy, somehow. He’s already told Thorfinn how he feels.

And yet he can’t bring himself to refuse. Without Thorfinn in his life he will have _nothing_. The thought of being alone once more keeps him quiet, welcoming whatever attention he receives. He still dreams of Arnheid sometimes and harbors vague fantasies of family, but when he wakes up he can’t remember if the pale hair was wavy or straight, and the hand against his own might have been sword-callused.

It happens again on a golden afternoon. After the farm hands have swaggered off leaving a paltry meal, they go back into the forest to stuff themselves on roast duck. Their field is growing and they eat well, for now; it’s easier for Einar to ignore the jibes of the hands. After lunch, Einar licks his fingers, then daringly, licks Thorfinn’s. Thorfinn breathes a chuckle and bites his lower lip, then leans in for a kiss. His fingers leave damp trails on Einar’s neck and collar, briefly chill in a breeze. Einar tugs on his lengthening tail of hair and strokes his short beard, then pulls at Thorfinn’s tunic, wishing he could get at the skin underneath. At his encouragement, Thorfinn clambers nearly on top of him, strong fingers prodding at his chest and stomach.

Thorfinn’s muscled thighs press on either side of Einar’s leg. The weight of him is wonderful, solid pressure that Einar can’t resist. Briefly he forgets and slides a hand up the back of Thorfinn’s leg, pulling him even closer. For a wonderful moment they’re pressed against each other and Thorfinn curves his back, and—oh.

Thorfinn _is_ interested. Einar can hardly resist pushing back, relishes the small sound in Thorfinn’s throat and the way his eyes flutter briefly unfocused, before Thorfinn clenches his eyes closed and pulls away.

Remorse and a rejection crawl into Einar’s stomach. “I’m sorry,” he says, though he can hardly get away from Thorfinn without pushing him bodily off. It is too much, he thinks, and desperately wants to go lick his wounds at his obvious undesirability. Alone. On the other side of the forest.

“Einar,” Thorfinn says, something ragged in his voice that makes Einar meet his eyes. “I…” He toys with the neck of Einar’s tunic.

“It’s fine,” Einar says, perhaps a bit short, but he wants to cut past the awkwardness. He tries not to look at Thorfinn’s kiss-reddened lips or mussed hair, or think about the mark he’d nearly managed to put on his shoulder, out of sight. Perhaps Thorfinn is concerned with issues of honor, despite the incongruity of the situation.

“I just want to ask,” and Thorfinn’s voice goes neutral, “do you still despise me?”

“I—do—I—what?”

Thorfinn sits back, though he is still straddling Einar’s leg. “For being a warrior.”

Einar finally manages to put together a coherent sentence: “What do you mean _still_?”

“When did you stop?” Thorfinn looks confused, but hopeful. It makes Einar’s heart clench.

“When did I start!”

“Before, I asked you if you despised me,” Thorfinn explains. There is something horrible about his matter-of-fact tone. “You frowned at me in disgust and walked away.”

Einar’s mouth has flopped open and he doesn’t seem capable of closing it. That’s not exactly what he remembers, but it rings of truth. Had he done that? Had Thorfinn believed this for the better part of a year?

“I understand, of course,” Thorfinn reassures. “I’m a terrible person, and I’ve done horrible things. I deserve it.” He swallows thickly. “And you’re a very good man, Einar. It’s natural that you would feel that way.”

“But,” Einar says weakly, “all this time we’ve been kissing and…” he flushes. “How could I despise you through all that?”

Thorfinn shrugs. “Askeladd hated Danes,” he says. “He was the head of a pirate band for years. They fought together, he fed them, he gave them money. But he hated them. In the end they all died, and he never cared. He never had a single friend among them.”

Askeladd, the man who’d killed Thorfinn’s father, the hatred for whom had shaped Thorfinn’s life.

“You think I’m like _him_?” Einar demands.

“Ah.” Thorfinn’s eyes widen. “No, that’s not what I meant! It’s just, I understand that you—“

“That’s _sick_!” Einar grabbed Thorfinn’s shoulders when he would have retreated. “I would never _pretend_ like that! I would never treat someone that way! I just _like you_ , Thorfinn!”

Thorfinn stops trying to slither away. “What?”

“I like you,” Einar repeats, helpless. He squeezes Thorfinn’s shoulders, then carefully cups his jaw.

Confused emotion wars across Thorfinn’s face. “I don’t understand.” The sentence has more feeling than Einar has ever heard from him. “What does that mean?”

“That’s it,” Einar says. “I’m not a complicated person.” He leans forward and presses his forehead to Thorfinn’s chest and tightens arms around him. “I like you,” he says again, muffled now. “And I like being close to you.”

“I don’t deserve it.” And yet he scuffs one hand into Einar’s hair, holding on to him. Einar can feel the slight hitch in his breath. Einar doesn’t move, still dizzy with the knowledge that all these months Thorfinn had truly believed that Einar hated him, and still—and still. Memories of holding each other, lying together, eating together. How could Thorfinn believe that?

Despair gnaws at him. _All this time_.

“I’m sorry, Einar,” Thorfinn says in a small voice. “Thank you.” As if he’s trying to find the correct combination of socially-acceptable words for the situation. “I like you, too.”

The words should make happy, but he can’t trust them. His head jerks up. “And what next?” he demands. “Are you going to come back in six months and tell me that you don’t think I _actually_ like you for some reason?”

“Sorry,” Thorfinn stammers. “I don’t mean to. I’m not very smart.”

Even that annoys Einar, because he’s not sure it’s true. For someone who isn’t smart, Thorfinn does think a lot. But Thorfinn is nothing if not straightforward; he says what he thinks. Usually.

“Do you really like me?” Their faces are close, enough that Einar can see his pale lashes and the hint of a freckle on his cheek.

“I tried not to,” Thorfinn says quietly. “My hands are covered in blood. I shouldn’t touch you with them.”

Einar groans, and Thorfinn jumps. “ _Please_ touch me with them,” he says, throwing self-respect to the winds. “Or turn me down and be done.” To make his point further, he takes Thorfinn’s hand and laces their fingers together. Both hands are callused and work-hardened, skin roughened by a long winter. Einar feels a surge of protectiveness for that hand, those fingers with their torn cuticles and uneven nails, which have learned to hold a hoe instead of a sword.

Thorfinn doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t try to untangle their fingers. With his other hand, he strokes Einar’s chin, and draws him into a soft kiss. He crawls closer, nervous at the unfamiliarity of even the simplest of touches. Einar slides hands under his tunic and kisses over warm skin and wiry muscle. Thorfinn’s bones are visible, and Einar thinks that he will have to work harder to make sure Thorfinn eats enough. Beneath Thorfinn’s roaming hands he feels huge and lumbering, and wonders why anyone in the world is larger than Thorfinn. Thorfinn is clearly the perfect size.

But Thorfinn doesn’t seem to notice, and explores him with the same intensity he watches the seasons change, or buds sprout. What a strange power, to make Einar feel strong and handsome and capable, with only murmurs and gestures. For a time, their bodies belong wholly to themselves, and willingly given to each other.

\----

“Is that it?” Thorfinn asks afterwards.

Einar’s jaw drops in offended shock.

“I mean,” Thorfinn backtracks, and twitches his hands, wondering if he should touch Einar or not. “I thought it would be more complicated. Or… involved.”

“Well if it wasn’t good—” Einar had already been putting on his pants, but now he pulls the drawstring more aggressively.

“No, no! It was good!” Thorfinn grabs his arm, and rubs his forehead against it. “It was just so _easy_ , Einar. Things with you are easy. It’s strange.”

And how can Einar be angry? It’s so much easier to give in, to wrap his arms around Thorfinn again and squeeze. Things aren’t easy with Thorfinn, but he’s okay with that.


End file.
